


The Boy Who Cried Wolf

by McKay



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 03:16:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10958511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McKay/pseuds/McKay
Summary: Madam Pomfrey discovers that young Remus has developed a crush on her.





	The Boy Who Cried Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2004.

Poppy didn't realize the young werewolf had developed a crush on her until his third year. By that time, she had moved from thinking of him as The Lupin Boy to thinking of him as Remus. She saw him regularly, which let her get to know him better than any other student she had tended, and the routine of his monthly stays in the infirmary lent a familiarity and comfort to their relationship that she had never experienced before. 

Still, she didn't know about the crush until it was in full force and there was nothing to be done about stopping it. She had heard her colleagues talking about student crushes before; most of them received anonymous cards or sometimes a small box of chocolates on Valentine's Day. Even Minerva, as prim and starchy as she was, had secret admirers among her students, but Poppy had never received a card or even so much as a single jelly slug for Valentine's Day or any other reason. Being sent to see Madam Pomfrey wasn't a pleasant thing, after all, and the students avoided the infirmary if they could. 

Remus, however, didn't seem to mind being there. He had, in fact, grown increasingly reluctant to leave and had taken to inventing excuses to linger, claiming his shoulders still ached, or that he felt feverish. She never could find anything wrong with him, but she let him stay anyway; extra rest in a peaceful environment wouldn't hurt him, and truthfully, she enjoyed the company. 

For the first three months she tended to him, she thought he was painfully shy. He rarely made eye contact with her, and he spoke only when spoken to, mumbling his responses as his face turned red. She tucked him into bed when they returned from the Shrieking Shack with her usual brisk efficiency and let him sleep, and when he woke up, she brought him a light meal, treating him like any other patient, which, of course, he was. Poppy prided herself on her progressive views; besides, anyone with an ounce of sense could see that the boy wasn't Dark, and she refused to think of him as an inferior half-breed. He was a sweet, shy eleven year old who had dealt with far more than a child his age should have. 

By the fourth month, he stopped mumbling and began meeting her eyes. By the sixth month, she was bringing him tea and biscuits, and they were having nice chats in the late afternoon before he left. He was bright and curious, and she enjoyed talking to him, especially since her normal conversations with the young people who came to her infirmary went along the lines of, "stop thrashing about so I can fix it!"

His second year passed smoothly, although in hindsight, she supposed she should have realized something was going on when she received her first Valentine's Day card. He stopped by the infirmary after classes, blushing as he pushed the card into her hands, and then he darted away before she opened it. It was a friendly card, thanking her for being so nice every month, but there were no declarations of affection or devotion, and so she had smiled at his thoughtfulness, slipped it into her pocket, and thought nothing more about what it might have implied about his feelings for her. 

It was Minerva who had to point it out to her in the end, after she had gone to Minerva's office to speak with her about Remus privately and see if she had noticed any unusual behavior. 

"There's nothing physically wrong with him," Poppy said, lifting her teacup to her lips and taking a sip before setting both cup and saucer aside; she was too worried to enjoy the tea and lemon squares, although they were warm and fresh, just as she liked them. "I've examined him repeatedly, and none of my diagnostic spells find anything, yet he still complains of being tired or sore. Is this normal for werewolves? I've thought about asking Professor Talbot, but I didn't want to risk having him ask difficult questions about why I suddenly want to know about werewolf physiology."

"He's seemed fine to me," Minerva said, frowning slightly. "He certainly hasn't been lacking energy as far as I can tell. He and Potter, Black, and Pettigrew have been on quite a tear of late, as a matter of fact. I swear they must have bought half the contents of Zonko's and are hoarding things around the castle so that as soon as I confiscate one item, they have another in reserve."

"I don't understand it," Poppy said. "He's even taken to coming by the infirmary between transformations, saying he doesn't feel well. What could be going on?"

Minerva gave Poppy a long, shrewd look over the rim of her teacup. "Tell me, Poppy -- have you received any anonymous notes or gifts lately?"

"No, I haven't."

"Has young Lupin given you anything?"

Poppy stared at her, puzzled. "He gave me a thank-you note on Valentine's Day last year, but that's all." 

"Ah." Minerva's mouth curved in that self-satisfied way that said she knew what was going on. "A Valentine's Day card, making up excuses to spend time in the infirmary when he's perfectly well -- don't you see what has happened? The boy has a crush on you."

"On me?" Poppy pressed her hand to her chest, gaping at Minerva. "You're joking!"

"I am not." Minerva placed her teacup in its saucer on her desk and leaned forward, fixing Poppy with a somber, intense gaze. "How much has Lupin told you about his family?"

"Not much. He doesn't seem to want to talk about it, if I ask him." 

Nodding, Minerva continued. "Lupin's mother is dead. She was killed by the werewolf that turned him. She was trying to protect him from it, but it killed her and bit him before his father had a chance to save either of them. His father was devastated -- his wife murdered and his only child turned into a werewolf right there in front of him. It affected him." 

"He didn't mistreat the boy, did he?"

"No, he cared for his son the best he could, but he never remarried, and he never quite got over what happened. Young Lupin has lacked a normal family life, including close parental ties. Specifically, he has lacked a maternal influence." 

"You're saying he's looking to me for that maternal influence, then," Poppy said slowly. 

"I'm saying I think he -- or rather his adolescent hormones -- has confused looking for a mother with looking for a significant other, thus he has developed a crush on you."

"Well." Poppy blinked and took another sip of tea to cover the fact that she had no idea what to say. 

"He's thirteen," Minerva said, giving a dismissive wave. "It will wear off soon enough. Once he gets his head turned by someone his own age, he'll forget all about it."

"But what should I do in the meantime?"

"Do? Why, nothing. You know how these children are. If you let him know that you know, he'll be mortified. If you pretend you're oblivious, he can do his lovesick pining in peace, and he'll still be able to look you in the eye once he's over it." 

It was sound advice, and Poppy took it. She pretended not to notice when Remus made calf-eyes at her or stood close enough to brush his arm against hers while he helped her fold bandages. She did stop running tests every time he came to the infirmary with a complaint; if he took comfort from being fussed over a little, then she would give him that comfort. She tucked him into bed, smiling to see him relax beneath the cool sheets, and she brought him chocolate biscuits and sometimes a small bar of Honeyduke's as a reward for the times when he helped her restock her supplies and change the beds. 

Sometimes while he was sleeping, she sat on the edge of his bed and smoothed his hair back from his face as she watched him sleep; she had never had children of her own, never felt an attachment to any of her many patients as she did to him. His quiet presence had brought something to her life that she hadn't even realized was missing. She was not his mother, but deep down in the silent place where all the things she never spoke of dwelled, she wanted to be. 

He had a growth spurt between his third and fourth years. He returned to Hogwarts taller and lanky, clumsy as he adjusted to his new build. He had outgrown his old robes, but he hadn't outgrown his feelings for her. He sought her out after classes on the first day, tripping over his own feet as he hurried into the infirmary to greet her. He was almost as tall as she was now, and she could look him directly in the eye while they talked. 

He munched nearly an entire plate of biscuits and slurped his tea as he told her about his summer; he had spent time with his friends, and they had had Adventures, the way he said it letting her know that the word deserved a capital A. She sat quietly in her starched white uniform and listened and sipped her tea, letting him ramble as long as he wanted; he had a lot to tell, and she wanted to hear it -- all of it. The time would come soon enough when he stopped visiting and no longer shared the details of his life. 

And soon enough, it did. 

She still saw him every month, of course, and she still took care of him the day following his transformation, but he gradually stopped coming in on the pretext of being ill, and he stopped dropping by to see her on the pretext of helping her with her tasks. He no longer invented reasons to stay once he had rested, seeming eager to leave instead. 

She discovered the reason for the change by accident; Albus was suffering from a particularly acute headache, and she had delivered a pain relief potion to his office. On her way back to the infirmary, she passed Remus in the corridor. He wasn't alone, nor was he with his friends for once; he was walking by the side of a pretty brunette whom Poppy recognized as one of the Ravenclaw Chasers, and he was holding her hand, their fingers entwined. 

She smiled when she saw them, ignoring the pang in her heart at the evidence of her little boy all grown up. He was taller than she was now, far more confident with his body and able to keep from tripping over or dropping everything in sight. "Good evening, Mr. Lupin," she said as they approached. 

He smiled hesitantly, almost awkwardly, a flash of something in his eyes as he looked at her. "Good evening, Madam Pomfrey," he replied, his voice deeper and huskier -- a man's voice now. 

The girl -- Gwen something -- nodded and smiled too, and then they were gone, and Poppy continued on her way alone, knowing that the days of pretending she didn't know about his crush were over. He was still polite and even affectionate when he saw her, but no longer attentive, not as he had been, and Poppy tucked away the memories of the short time she had had an almost-son and went on with life as usual. 

When he left Hogwarts, she didn't expect to see him again, but on the morning of November 1, 1981, she walked into the infirmary to find him curled up in one of the beds farthest from the door. He was asleep, but she could still see tear stains on his pale cheeks, and even in slumber, his face was lined with care. Her heart constricted as she draped an extra blanket over him and smoothed back his hair as she had done years before, careful not to wake him. She had heard the news, and she knew that while the rest of the wizarding world was celebrating its freedom, Remus was mourning the loss of everyone he held dear. 

She didn't ask any questions when he awoke at last, and he didn't speak except to say thank you when she brought him some tea. He began to cry again, silently as if trying to be unobtrusive even in the midst of his grief, and she held him and rocked him and didn't tell him everything would be all right. She didn't need a mother's instinct to know that this pain was too deep for words. Later, when he was ready to hear it, she reminded him that he was strong, and that he would survive. 

"Will it stop hurting?" he asked, and when he looked at her, she saw the eyes of the boy he had been, wide and filled with raw pain. 

"No," she said, making her tone as gentle as possible. "But one day, it will be manageable, and you won't feel it to the marrow of your bones every hour of every day." And then, for the first time, she told him about her husband. 

He left again two days later, and this time, it was twelve years before she saw him again. His hair was turning grey, and his clothes were shabby, but he sought her out in the infirmary after the Welcoming Feast and let her fuss over him for being too active on the day following a transformation. 

"The sheets still smell like lavender," he murmured as she tucked him into bed, his eyes already fluttering closed. 

The next morning, she brought him tea and toast and clucked over how thin he was and the state of his robes. "You should let me mend this," she said, fingering the ragged hem of his sleeve, and he chuckled, a deep, warm sound that let her know he wasn't embarrassed by her noticing the evidence of his poverty or annoyed by her fussing. 

"Yes, Mum."

She glanced up, startled, and when she met his eyes, she saw a seriousness in the blue-green depths that belied the teasing note in his voice. Clearing her throat, she glanced away, feeling a rush of heat in her cheeks, her heart beating faster. Had he guessed that she had guarded feelings of her own all these years, albeit of a different kind? 

"I'll just get my wand," she said, but he caught her hand before she could turn away. 

"Thank you," he said, squeezing her fingers gently. 

Lifting her gaze to his face again, she didn't have to ask why he was thanking her; it was there, plain to see in the way he was looking at her. She smiled, a bloom of warmth bursting in her chest as she reached out and touched his cheek gently.

"No need to thank me." She leaned close to press a kiss against his forehead. "Welcome home, my boy."


End file.
